


Merry Christmas, Darling

by DoreyG



Category: Society of Gentlemen - K. J. Charles
Genre: Christmas, Dysfunctional Family, Epistolary, Love Letters, M/M, Yuleporn, Yuletide 2017, letter sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-18
Updated: 2017-12-18
Packaged: 2019-01-30 19:41:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,962
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12660111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoreyG/pseuds/DoreyG
Summary: My dearest Francis,I miss you. No, wait, that wasn't quite evocative enough of the deep agony I feel at being away from your side. I miss you! I miss every part of you with an ache so deep that it feels like I've been pierced to the bone! I swoon at the lack of your presence. I sob, and tear at my hair, and rend my clothes, and do any number of dramatic and tragic things to show the depths of my devotion!I miss you!





	Merry Christmas, Darling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [torakowalski](https://archiveofourown.org/users/torakowalski/gifts).



> Merry Christmas, Torakowalski! I love these two, so it was great to get to write them. I took a prompt from your 2016 letter for this, asking just what was in that letter in book 3, and I hope you enjoy it!

My dearest Francis,

I miss you. No, wait, that wasn't quite evocative enough of the deep agony I feel at being away from your side. I miss you! I miss every part of you with an ache so deep that it feels like I've been pierced to the bone! I swoon at the lack of your presence. I sob, and tear at my hair, and rend my clothes, and do any number of dramatic and tragic things to show the depths of my devotion! _I miss you_!

How hard did you just roll your eyes at the above paragraph, my dear? I hope it merited at least one chuckle, or at least the very slightest smirk. I'd be sad, if our time away from each other had led to me losing my touch.

I'm not entirely lying, though. I have perhaps refrained from dramatic and tragic actions (sobbing, hair tearing, clothes rending, etc...) for the most part, but I _do_ very much miss you. And it does very much ache, this odd hollowness in my chest like something vital to me has been removed.

I wish I could spend this season with you, not with my cursed family. My mother and sisters are entirely acceptable I suppose, but to be frank I am not sure that I can say anything more than that for them. My father is being his usual self, and I trust you know very well what that means. Mal is being somehow worse than his usual self, and I’m afraid you know what _that_ means too. It is all completely intolerable, and I am unashamedly bored out of my mind.

What would we do, if you were here instead of my unfortunate blood? What fun things would we get up to, what fantasies would we explore? We’ve been together for a while now, and I’m not lying when I say that I’ve loved every single second of it, but I still feel like we’re just scratching the surface. My passion for you is like a well within me, one that I never knew existed. I look into it, and I find myself wanting to just drink and drink and _drink_. Swallow to the point of bursting, but never get full.

I have some ideas, for what we would do if you were here. I would get on my knees for you, readily and willingly. I would slide my way slowly down your body, touching every single inch I could reach. I would kiss your lips, and then trail my mouth over your chin and down your neck. I would nip at that spot that always makes you shudder, and soothe the sting with the heat of my tongue. I would lavish attention on your collarbone, then suddenly – before you even realized I was moving! – drop to lavish even more attention on your nipples. I would mouth around the brown of them, feel them tighten ever so surely. I would use my fingertips on one, my tongue on the other, maybe even my teeth if you whimpered needily enough. And then I would drop lower, lower, _lower_ …

Or maybe you would use your mouth on me. We haven’t done that very often, but I assure you that I love it just as much as I love everything you do to me. We would be in bed for this, I would lie on my back and you could crouch over me like the beast you are. I can imagine it now, and _oh_ does the imagining of it excite me. You would kiss me hard on the mouth, plunge your tongue right into me and open me up until I was a panting wreck. You would use your fingers to grip my hips, grip my arse, finger me until I was writhing beneath you. And then you would drop down suddenly, taking me by surprise, and swallow me _down_.

Or maybe you would just use your hands. I adore your hands, you know. They’re gamester’s hands, made for flipping cards and rolling dice and performing any number of glorious tricks. I close my eyes now, and I can see them so vividly that it’s almost like you’re in my bedroom with me right now (if only! Your warmth would soon heat this miserable old dump). I can picture the hair on the back of them, the callouses on your fingertips, how the width of them spreads so impossibly and beautifully wide. I can _feel_ how they would wrap around my cock, how they would reach between my thighs and open me up until the only possible thing I could think of would be you.

Heh, like I don’t spend enough time thinking of you as it is.

The truth is that we could do any number of things together, I can think of literally thousands at present moment, and I would happily revel in all of them. Maybe I could finger you, for just this once. We could frot against each other, grind through our clothes until we spend like impulsive youngsters. We could make love Oxford style, you between my thighs as I gasp for more. We could sprawl side by side and take each other in hand, pump and pump until our eyes roll and our knees shake. We could even make love fully, you entering me and thrusting until we both reach a messy and glorious completion.

Can you feel how much I want that? Do you know? I’ve never felt like this for anybody before, I never want to again. What we have feels so special, so divinely _right_. Even when I’m mad at you, I adore you. Even when I’m anxious and tense, I still want you there to soothe away my fears and make things well again. Even when you’re not there, I can still feel you. You’ve woven your way into my heart, into my soul. And so help me god, Francis Webster, you better stay there for the rest of our lives or there will be consequences.

I only mean that jokingly, of course. The consequences, not my emotions. I want you forever, no matter what happens. I want you not only now, but for the rest of our lives. If I could be ninety, and still look upon you half as fondly as I did on our first night together, then I would consider my life well spent.

Which inspires me, to thoughts of yet more things we could do if we were together. Do you remember our first night, our first time? Believe me, Francis, I most certainly do. It’s one of those memories that I return to when things feel slightly scary, when the world is big and dark and I can’t simply find solace in your arms. I cannot quite convey how much comfort it has brought me, how much comfort it still brings me even now.

I remember the build-up to it, the delicious process towards our love that – now, with the benefit of hindsight – seems like the most glorious seduction ever planned. I remember you beating me at cards, over and over again. I remember the darkness of your eyes upon me, the weight of your intensity, the way your attention never strayed from me making a complete fool of myself. You look so very attractive, when you’re taking me for everything I have. Do not look offended as you read these words, my love, simply trust that they’re the highest compliment I can possibly pay.

I remember our game afterwards, too, the more private one. I remember sitting in your rooms, and watching you deal the cards with an anticipation that bordered on the painful. You played so well that night, my love, so ruthlessly and yet so kindly. You gave me every chance possible, proving yourself the very best of men, and didn’t even wince when I insisted upon wasting every single one.

(I think I knew, even then, what would happen. I was excited, I can tell you that much. You brought out things in me terrifyingly new and achingly wonderful and I am so grateful to you for doing so that I could burst from the pressure of it.)

I remember, most intimately of all, what happened after I lost that last game. How you tried to hold onto your honour, and send me away with full winnings and only the slightest touch of confusion. I remember too how I would not let you, how I forced the issue with a passion bordering on the divine. I remember being nervous, but knowing I was safe. Walking on the edge of the knife, but knowing very well that if I tumbled off you would be there to catch me in your arms. I don’t think you quite know, how rare the ability to provoke that feeling is. I have always felt safe with you, and that is the absolute truth. I have always felt right with you, and that is something beyond the absolute truth.

And then…

Oh, my love, I replay the ‘and then’ in my head every single day. And I’m sure, from what you’ve shared with me before, that you do too. It’s one of those perfect memories, one of those glorious ones. A memory where nothing at all is wrong, and everything is right.

And then you kissed me. And then you took my naked body in your arms, and pressed me back against the table. And then you used your fingers on me, in the first wonderful instance of what I suggested above, and made me gasp and writhe. And then you buried yourself in me, and hit every single bright spot within until I would’ve done anything for you as long as you didn’t stop. And then you brought me to the point of paradise, made light explode behind my eyes and the sun rise between us. And then you came within me, and marked me as your willing love forevermore. And then…

You changed my life, as simply and easily as that. You found me wondering in the cold, and brought me into a warm home that I can only describe as the most perfect thing in all of creation.

We should do that again, some day. The kissing, the you taking my naked body in your arms, the you using your fingers on me, the burying yourself within me… Everything, really. We don’t even have to change it up with my mouth on your cock,, or your mouth on mine, or our hands on each other, or frottage, or any of my situations. As long as I have you, and even a touch of that intensity, I’ll be happy.

As long as I have you, and every single wonderful thing that you are, I’ll always be happy.

My family, alas, is calling. By which I mean that Mal is undoubtedly drunk, and has decided to yell the most appalling insults up the stairs. I am afraid that I must go and at least make the appearance of apologising, or else my father is likely to march up the stairs and drag me into a stew of further humiliation. I think I shall never tire of the rather liberal attitude my family takes towards ‘goodwill to all men’, by which I mean that I tired of it a good twenty years ago and find myself despairing more with every Yuletide that passes.

I will see you soon, my love. I will hold you in my arms again in a matter of days, my everything. Until then please do keep this letter close to your chest, and know that I meant everything I wrote within it. Every single word, every single letter.

My love eternally,  
Your Gabriel


End file.
